


Drabble Me This, Drabble Me That

by keelywolfe



Series: by any other name [103]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Undertale Monsters on the Surface
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25107451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: The drabbles keep coming, even more shorts written for the By Any Other Name universe!
Relationships: Kustard, Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale), Spicyhoney, UnderFell Sans/UnderTale Sans, Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus
Series: by any other name [103]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1039829
Comments: 196
Kudos: 221





	1. Not A Side-Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilded_pleasure made a mention recently that they love the way everyone at the Embassy seems to be somewhat protective of Edge. That Edge thinks he's a complete hardass and everyone knows that beneath his pointy exterior lies the soul of a true marshmallow. 
> 
> It's so true, poor boy, so of course they are all invested in his happiness.

* * *

The Embassy was always a hub of activity during the day. On the first floor were meeting rooms for visitors, mostly Humans and Monsters without security clearance. As one went further into the building, entry was more limited. The higher the floor, the more clearance required, and the basement levels were the reverse, the deepest levels restricted to those with the most security access. 

Edge’s office was on the third floor and despite the necessity of limiting access to the floor, there was always a flurry of activity around. Mailroom clerks delivering paperwork and carefully screened packages, personal assistants rushing from room to room to with time sensitive messages, even the occasional Monster from Security strolling through the floors at odd hours for inspections that were on a schedule privy to very few. 

Edge could always tell which of the security personnel were personally trained by Red; their placid expressions were unreadable, their eyes coolly observant as they scanned their surroundings. And so, it was a good guess that his brother hadn’t trained the Monster who was looking at him now. They were all but staring, watching him make his slow way through the hallway. 

“Can I help you?” Edge asked coolly. He refused to be self-conscious about his scooter, it was a necessary medical device, thank you, and not open for mockery.

“Huh? Oh, no,” the Monster waved him off with a self-conscious little laugh, another clear sign that Red hadn’t had a hand in his training. “Sorry, it was just…you know…” He lightly tapped the side of his face and Edge might have been further offended if it weren’t very clear that he didn’t mean the obvious crack in his socket.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Edge let his voice drop from cool to icy, “would you care to explain?”

Once, that tone would have inspired fear in whoever it was directed at and while that wasn’t exactly his goal, it was dissatisfying for the Monster to only shake his head, muttering another apology smothered with amusement as he turned and walked down towards the elevators. Edge only watched him go, more perplexed than upset. 

It might have irritated him more if it weren’t for the fact that he wasn’t the only Monster giving him strange looks this morning. There was nothing in them that Edge could pinpoint, no particular flick of eyes towards anyplace obvious, not even the fly of his pants which would at least prompt him to check his zipper. If he had to choose a word to describe it, he supposed he might call those glances fond, of all things, though why every person who passed him by today might give him such a look, he couldn’t begin to guess. 

Edge could only shake his head and continued on his way back to his office, careful of the two cups secured in the front basket. He made a mental note to simply ask Janice for a refill the next time he wanted coffee.

Ah. Janice. She might be the key to all this that he needed. 

She was sitting at her desk as Edge rolled back into the outer office, glancing up with a smile as he set her coffee cup on her desk. Her expression turned questioning when he didn’t go on to his own office. 

“Why does everyone keep looking at me today?” Edge asked bluntly. “I thought it was the scooter, but they aren’t laughing at me or mocking, so what is it?”

“What do you mean?” Janice asked, her brow furrowing, “and I’m sure no one is laughing at you, everyone was very worried about you, they’re happy to have you back.” 

That much was true. The morning he’d returned, he’d discovered a card on his desk, signed by nearly everyone in the Embassy, including Asgore. He’d been quite touched, and the card was sitting propped up on his desk, right next to his stuffed chicken, Pot Pie. He already had plans to spend some time this coming Saturday baking plenty of treats to bring in next week as a thank you. 

As for right now, he’d spent enough time around Stretch to know when someone was hedging on the verge of a lie, buying time to come up with something reasonably believable.

Time was of the essence and he knew from experience that demands weren’t the route to take; better to make an attempt at appealing to her maternal instincts. Edge would never excel as an actor or a liar, that much he knew. Instead, he took all of his knowledge of his husband’s skills in that area and channeled it, letting it guide him into creating a perfectly pleading expression as he wheedled out, “Tell me?”

Janice wilted instantly beneath the force of his imploring gaze, surely this was a power that should be wielded with caution. “Well…it might be because of Stretch’s twitter post.”

Of course it was. Edge sighed, resigned to his fate, “What did he say?”

There was a certain sympathy in her smile, “It might be better if you check for yourself.”

He went to his office and dug out his phone. The twitter app was buried on the third menu, he rarely opened it since he only followed two people on it and only truly cared about one of them. He tapped the icon and the very first tweet leapt out at him. 

_had someone send me a message asking me what i do for a living. not much for the 9 to 5, i usually work my hardest trying to make my babycakes happy. it’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it!_

It was followed by a flurry of emoticons, mostly of hearts and fireworks, along with a cake and the odd random chili pepper. Beneath the message was a picture of Stretch, a selfie in profile. He was pressing a spectacularly messy kiss against what Edge knew was his own cheekbone, but the picture was carefully cropped to show only a sliver of his face and one of his boots, tangled between Stretch’s sneakered feet. 

More fodder for the internet speculators who were so strangely invested in their relationship. It seemed some of his co-workers were equally invested if those earlier looks meant anything. 

He didn’t remember Stretch taking this picture, but then, he took so many that wasn’t unexpected. He supposed it should bother him, to have his private life so exposed, even in the periphery. Instead, all he felt was a swell of his own fondness, looking at that picture, at Stretch’s visible glee, the curve of his smile showing from around that kiss. Perhaps he could ask Stretch for an uncropped copy, assuming one existed. 

Impulsively, he typed a reply, saying only, _you’re a good worker, you should ask your boss for a raise._ Then he closed the app before any other comments could pour in. There was only one he cared to see, and he suspected it would come as a text.

His phone chimed right on time, but not from the expected source. His brother sent him a text, curt and to the point.

__

_don’t worry ‘bout earlier, boss, it’ll get handled._

Well, it looked like the security Monster from earlier would be getting a little personal training from Red, after all. Meanly vindicated, Edge sat down at his desk with his coffee to get back to work. He could use some time to prepare himself for any looks he got on his way down to lunch. 

-fin


	2. Cleanup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stretch can use a little distraction this morning.

* * *

It was gonna be one of those mornings. Stretch knew it before he even opened his sockets. He wasn’t more than half-awake and already thoughts were ping-ponging around inside his skull, none of them having the mercy of sticking around long enough for him to actually finish one. He needed a coffee, oh, he had to check on the hydroponics in his lab downstairs today, but wait, the chickens would be waiting to be fed and a shower sounded good right about now and—

Stretch did the best he could by getting out of bed. If he wandered downstairs, eventually he’d bump into something that would hook his attention long enough to do something, coffee, that was it, hold onto that one, coffee, coffee. He had a slippery grip on the concept as he shrugged into his robe and headed out the bedroom door, but that was where it stalled, blanking. 

Hello, there.

Downstairs, Edge was moving around the living room with a cleaning cloth in his hand. The brace on his slim leg didn't hinder him at all as he attacked the various shelves and furniture with precision, wiping each in broad strokes.

Stretch usually dusted (ugh) every week or so, but Edge always liked to give the house a little deep cleaning action when he had a chance. Didn’t bother Stretch any, like he didn’t have a few weird quirks hanging around like mental bats ready to fly out of his personal belfry? If it settled something in Edge to give his domain a once over, he was welcome to it. 

Besides, it made for a nice little distraction from his own mental bouncy house. Stretch leaned against the banister that overlooked the living room and took a little time to enjoy the view. 

The things his baby’s pelvis did to a pair of tight jeans had to be illegal in some countries, at the very least banned in public areas. His t-shirt chose to ride high when Edge rose up on his tippy toes to reach the highest shelf, exposing the consistent ridges of his spine, the dips of his sacroiliac joint. Right where Stretch knew he was extra sensitive and there was a wander down memory lane from last night, of Edge lying bare on their sheets, twisting handfuls of linen in his clenched fists, his spine bowed in a perfect arch as Stretch teased those little hollows with gentle fingers and then tongue...unf. One for the mental vaults, for sure.

Less good was that Stretch forgot to turn down the volume on his mental replay. A happy little moan weaseled its way out of his throat and through the clench of his teeth, and it was loud enough that Edge jerked and looked up, catching him smack dab in the middle of his dual voyeurism.

Busted. 

But the scowl that settled on Edge’s face didn’t detract from that titillation, not one teensy little micron.

“hey, babe,” Stretch called down. May as well roll with it, play it casual. This was his house, too, and if he wanted to loom like a creeper upstairs, he had rights. 

He was pretty sure Edge wasn’t about to whip out his wallet to buy what Stretch was selling, confirmed when he finally asked, coolly, “Did you need something?”

“nope.” Took some serious skill to pop the ‘p’ without lips, but Stretch wasn’t some amateur here, he was an expert in ‘act casual’. A damn shame that Edge was a professional doubter, years spent training in the arts by his bro.

His frown deepened suspiciously, but a lack of evidence seemed to be working in Stretch’s favor. Edge went back to his dusting and the very second he leaned down to get the struts under the coffee table, the sexy quotient went up by about tenfold. Stretch would have lost good money if he’d bet Edge’s painted-on jeans were too tight to move even a quarter inch, ‘cause when he bent over, they eased sloooowly lower, increasing the exposing gap between his t-shirt and his belt and giving Stretch a welcome socketful of his iliac crests. Shapely angular lines that all but begged for an eager hand to follow that path lower and see where it led.

It was a hell of a disappointment when Edge stood back up, shirt falling back into place…for a minute, barely long enough for Stretch’s hopes to drop before they stuttered back up as Edge reached towards another shelf. The dusting intensified, Edge moving through the living room and Stretch was down to a mental capacity of two; first, keeping from drooling and second, struggling to catch more glimpses of strong, scarred bones as they weaved in and out of sight.

He was hung up on a yo-yo of frustration and want. A needy little whimper clogged up briefly in Stretch’s throat, only escaping when Edge went down to one knee to check under the sofa. The sight of him kneeling there with his head down and the perfect view of his denim-clad ass in the air was asking too much of Stretch’s libido. Every bit of his magic was settling into Stretch’s own pelvis, hot and ready to get to work, and right when he was trying to jangle up enough sense to decide what to do about it, Edge glanced up right at him. 

That knowing smirk was solid proof that a high IQ didn’t mean you couldn’t be an idiot. One hasty shortcut later and Stretch was yanking Edge back his arms, that teasing pelvis of his pressed right against Stretch’s as Edge settled amicably into his lap.

“you brat,” Stretch accused breathlessly. Edge’s soft chuckle sent a fresh spangle of want to dance up his spine, and yeah, maybe Stretch could’ve hid his admiration a little better, but why the hell would he want to. He loved it when his baby played the brat, damn well _loved_ it, only for him, always.

“You said you didn’t need anything,” Edge reminded him. The last word broke on a startled gasp as Stretch slid a bold hand up his femur, settling it between his spread thighs and firmly cupping the bulge that was starting to glow at his crotch.

“baby love, i always need you,” Stretch whispered it into the side of Edge’s skull, let the warm dampness of his breath ghost against him like a caress. Edge shivered, the brief clatter of his bones inviting. “you wanna stop with the clean up and get down and dirty instead, you can call me any ol’ time.”

Later, Stretch would swear his soul skipped a beat as Edge murmured, every word laced with soft implication, “So mess me up.”

A giddy ‘cleanup on aisle five’ was Stretch’s last semi-coherent thought for a while and that was a good thing. Better sometimes to not think, to let the physical swarm over him and fill his bones with a languid exhaustion that didn’t have a damn thing to do with his HP.

Cleaning out the busy corners of his ever-twisting mind was never a chore when Edge was around to lend a hand.

-fin


	3. All You Knead is Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturdays are baking days and Stretch kneads to dough Edge a favor without a breach of crust.

* * *

When Stretch was still living in the Underground, time seemed to go a little differently. There wasn’t a neat divide of weekends and weekdays, not really, what would be the point. Before things got bad, days were spent on sentry duty, hopping from one post to the next and napping between, heading home to choke down his bro’s latest attempt at tacos while NTT played on the boob tube, and evenings spent drinking too much at Muffet’s before heading home to do the same thing again. After a while, it all blurred together and when things started to—

(reset)

-get bad, well, it wasn’t like Stretch cared much about the day of the week. 

Things were a little different on the surface when it came to a schedule and Stretch knew before he even opened his sockets that morning that it was Saturday. The delectably yeasty aroma wafting its way all the way up to their bedroom was like the siren call of lovely carbohydrates, beckoning to all innocent travelers to meet their starchy doom. 

Okay, maybe that was a little on the dire side, but Saturday was baking day and since Stretch wasn’t exactly tied to a ship’s mast, he was about to wander on down and see what was on the menu.

He took long enough to wash up and toss on some clothes, the better to head off any conditions Edge might have about him swiping a muffin or three for his brunch, and it wasn’t noon yet, not for fifteen minutes yet, totally still brunchtime. 

As predicted, Edge was standing at the kitchen island with a mound of pale dough in front of him, be-aproned and ready to get it on with his inner Paul Hollywood. Despite numerous gifts of ‘Kiss the Cook’ and ‘I cook as good as I look’ aprons, Edge still wore the plain black one he always did, only barely smudged with flour. 

(The frilly apron didn’t bear mention, since Stretch was the one who wore it that one time, that and nothing else, and it did not survive the event. Worth it.)

The Stretch blinked as he got a better look at the largess on their kitchen counters. Dozens of muffins sat grouped together, their domed tops seeded with berries or nuts or chocolate chips. There were trays of cookies in high piles, sugar cookies with colored sugar sparkling and the cross-hatched peanut butter ones. Small, round cookies with a thumbful of glistening jam pressed into their middles. 

Then there were loaves of crusty bread alongside knotted rolls scattered with sesame seeds and herbs. The countertop was heaped with enough gluten goodness to start a bakery and Edge was busily kneading even more. It all looked delicious, sure, and soft fluid magic was already filling Stretch’s mouth, begging for him to try his hand at a little tasty thievery. 

Except if Edge made all this today, then he’d been up before dawn and he’d already been standing a lot longer than he was supposed to. Even if he was kneeling on his scooter, the cartilage in his leg was gonna start swelling after a while. Doctor’s orders said sit every two hours and the certain tightness of Edge’s mouth, the narrowness of his sockets, stated pretty clearly that Edge needed to park his carcass. 

“babe,” Stretch said, cautiously. He crept closer, making sure to keep his hands nice and visible. The chances were low, but no reason to set off any nasty old triggers and make this into an event. “don’t you think you’ve made enough? even i won’t be able to eat all of that before it goes stale.”

“I’m taking most of this into the Embassy,” Edge said. His fingers moved expertly as he divided the dough, weaving it into a wide braid. “If you’d like something, you can help yourself.”

Normally, an invitation of free reign over Mount Delicious would have Stretch doing to the happy carb dance, but today? Not so much. Time for take two.

“so, after you’re done with that one, can you come out and watch a movie with me?” Stretch turned the wheedling up to max, “i could use a lap to lie on.”

Edge didn’t even look up, his slim hands working another ball of dough until it was smooth and elastic. “I need to finish this.”

“yep, you do,” Stretch agreed. He drew on his knowledge of many seasons of view the Great British Baking Show to ask, “but doesn’t it have to rise again?”

“It does, and while it is, I have three more loaves proofing.”

“uh huh.” Yeah, okay, time for the direct approach. Stretch reached out to gently lay his hands on top of Edge’s, stilling him. “babe, please. how long have you been standing? huh?”

The expression on Edge’s face told a long, convoluted story, a tale that went from indignance to faltering honesty, to dismay, to guilt. He glanced towards the corner where Stretch could see three more bowls of rising dough.

“Too long. But I need to finish this or else it’ll all go in the trash,” Edge admitted. Yeah, and Stretch knew exactly how Edge felt about wasting food.

“okay,” Stretch considered the options. There was really only one. “then let me help.”

That was a plan that worked on a few levels. It’d get Edge to sit down and Edge couldn’t exactly refuse without implying Stretch couldn’t do it. Considering all the times that Edge tried to encourage him with his attempts at cooking, any insinuations otherwise were gonna bring the wide, hurt eye sockets into play. 

A long, fraught moment of hesitation and Stretch was about to get his wounded look warmed up when at last Edge said, “All right.”

Their dining room set was currently a card table hawked from Papyrus’s garage and the remaining chairs from their last set. Edge sat in the chair and propped his leg up on the one across from it. Didn’t quite hide his grimace well enough and yeah, Stretch didn’t have a single regret about making him take a seat. 

That was, until it was his chance to turn on his inner chef.

Kneading dough wasn’t hard, exactly, but how the hell did Edge keep it from gunking up all his finger joints? Had to be about the technique and that wasn’t something Stretch was going to pick up in an afternoon. By the time he got it mostly looking like Edge’s and split into three lumpy balls, he got to learned something new about himself. Namely that he couldn’t braid and that might’ve been more frustrating if it weren’t for the fact Edge couldn’t keep a straight face as he watched. That normal stoic expression of his was cracking around the (heh) edges and trying to smother it under a hand was about as useful as Stretch’s braid.

“No, no,” Edge sputtered into a chuckle, “you bring the strip on the outside in…the other strip, you just _did_ that side…”

When Stretch was done, his dough braid sort of looked as if it’d taken a sad anime walk through the rain after senpai didn’t notice it at the volleyball game.

He gave it a forlorn poke with one finger, asking meekly, “can i knead it back together and try again?”

“No need, it’ll be fine, love,” and then Edge proved he was as cruel as the interns’ rumors said by adding, “Two more to go.”

Stretch set the sheet with the almost-a-braid on the counter and covered it with a light towel before grabbing another bowl, dumping it onto the floury counter. “sorry, babe, i’m never going to be much of a cook.”

“That would be why you have me. Here.” Edge stood up and came around behind him, sliding his arms around Stretch to add his own hands into the kneading. “Like this, slow and even.”

Their height difference meant Edge couldn’t even see what he was doing and he still did better than Stretch. Didn’t help that warm press of Edge’s body against his own was distracting and Stretch exhaled weakly, trying to match Edge’s rhythm as they worked the dough together. “you’re supposed to be sitting.” 

“I was sitting.” The deep vibration of his voice shivered through Stretch. Between his shoulder blades he could feel the light pressure of Edge’s skull resting against him. “I’m fine, love.”

That concerned voice in the back of Stretch’s skull was getting further away. Between both their hands, Edge’s deft and his own clumsy ones, they got the dough evenly divided, and Stretch tried his hands at braiding again. This time with Edge’s fingers resting lightly against his own, nudging when he nearly went the wrong way, guiding him better blind than Stretch did with both eye lights watching.

As if their thoughts about watching were mirrored, Edge chose that moment to speak up, “Do you know, I like watching you cook.”

Stretch snorted, looking down at his second braided loaf, still a little sloppy despite Edge’s help. “you like watching me fuck up?”

Those guiding fingers took a second to flick against his in light punishment, “First of all, you aren’t fucking up. And I do like watching you. As I’ve told you before, there’s a satisfaction to providing food. Giving nourishment to those you care about,” Edge shifted behind him, his breath warm against Stretch’s cervical vertebra, “Those you love.”

Stretch let his sockets droop briefly closed, sighing out, “oh, butter that toast, babe.”

The question of whether or not his braiding skills constituted a fuck up was up for debate, but he wasn’t about to argue about the satisfaction that came with baking, especially when it came with Edge wrapped around him like croissant. In a minute, he was gonna drag Edge out to the living room and make him take a better rest, maybe snag a few of those muffins with them to share. 

For now, Stretch was gonna knead up that last bowl of dough with his husband’s help. Then he could enjoy his just desserts.

-finis-


	4. Crossed Wires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red doesn't usually actually listen to all those bugs he keeps at his brother's place. 
> 
> Much.

* * *

Red didn’t check the listening devices in his bro’s house as much as some people seemed to think. Yeah, sure, not everyone felt the need to bug their brother (noun, not verb) but then, not everyone saw the first time their baby bro jammed a sharpened bone into another Monster’s eye while marrow ran down their face from their freshly cracked socket, so fuck those people, anyway.

It was only a precaution, that was all, to keep his people on the safe and narrow, and Red could quit anytime he liked.

Besides, he didn’t make the little eavesdroppers, that was Sansy’s gig. Didn’t really know how Sans even got into it. He didn’t listen in on his own bro, but eh, he’d only moved out recently. There was plenty of time to plan a break-in to plant a few good ‘ol bugs in the living room so they could keep an ear on Blue and Papyrus’s version of chit-chat.

Anyway. 

So yeah, Red didn’t really listen often, only sometimes, like when one of the keywords he had set popped up in the feed. ‘LV’ was one, any version of ‘depressed’ was another. ‘Chicken’ was a recent addition and he might end up taking that one out; the amount of alerts he was getting that involved Stretch recording TikToks with his little murder birds was getting excessive. Raised voices got a priority alert and if he’d heard the fucking argument they’d had before Edge’s trip to Cali, he might’ve rethought letting Asgore send his bro out in his place. 

No point in fussing about it now, he’d suck on that guilt some other time. 

All Red did was check the alerts, that was it. And, okay, maybe sometimes, not often, he’d end up lying on his living room floor with headphones on, listening to the live feed. 

Days like today, where his soul felt too-hot and achy in his chest, unwelcome thoughts itching at the inside of Red’s skull, mental termites that wouldn’t shut the fuck up, so time to give them something else to listen to.

It was right around dinnertime and Red could hear the steady thump of a knife against a cutting board. Without a video feed, Red was stuck with an internal game of charades and that was fucking perfect right about now.

If he thought about it, he’d figure his bro was prolly standing on that leg like he wasn’t supposed to, hiding his pained grimace behind that shield of stoicism that Edge hadn’t quite managed to stash away yet. 

Although it could be Stretch was helping? He didn’t usually hang around while Edge was cooking, he was more of pit-stop-kiss-and-run when the oven mitts came out. 

Today, though, Stretch was rambling about something, wandering vines of conversation that wrapped around each other and wove around into knots before traveling in a circle back to the beginning. Listening to the honey bun was fucking exhausting when he got revved up, kid could yak about an incredible amount of nothing for a truly impressive amount of time.

Nah, that wasn’t quite right, was it. Red found that endless chatter exhausting, but his bro?

There. There it was. The sound levels of the feed were incredible, those little devices Sans came up with coulda picked up mouse fart from the pantry, if any ever managed to sneak past Edge’s keen sight. That wasn’t likely and what it did end up getting instead was a quiet chuckle, raspy and softened with happiness. 

His bro was happy.

Red exhaled, one long, slow breath and the agitation roiling in his soul settled, volcanic heat cooling along with the urge, the need to do something, anything, reach out with his clawed hands and--Red closed his sockets and listened, not to the words, only the voices around them, cushioned with that happiness.

Didn’t get to hear it for long. He felt the air pressure of the room change and Red opened his sockets to see Sans standing in the doorway. No point in pretending he wasn’t playing a game of eavesdrop, wasn’t like Sans wasn’t the one who helped him stash the bugs.

Red slipped off his headphones and raised a browbone at Sans. 

“got what you needed?” Sans’s gaze held no judgement and that was saying something.

The burn in his soul was mostly gone and in its place it left a temptation to slide right into innuendo and yeah, Red gave his crotch a squeeze with one hand, purring out, “sansy, i got what _you_ need right here.

Sans couldn’t stop grinning any more than Red, but he could roll his eye lights. “hope you give out rainchecks, we got an invite to dinner from your bro. if we head out now, there might still be a coupla honey rolls left, if edge managed to keep 'em hidden from stretch.”

Dinner. With Stretch and his bro. A chance to listen to that happiness right up close.

“eh, may as well,” Red said and the disinterest in his voice was the product of years of careful cultivation. “think whatever is growing in our fridge just hit the industrial revolution.” 

“wouldn’t wanna stand in the way of progress,” Sans agreed and he knew, and he knew that Red knew, they both knew it all. But all he did was hold up the door, one foot holding the cat at bay while Red shoved his feet into his sneakers to follow Sans out. 

He let Sans shortcut them over this time and in the brief moment it took for them to settle on their feet, adjusting to the change from one sidewalk to another through the void, Red ran his thumb over the buckle at Sans’s throat, a quick second to trace that little heart-shape.

That single touch was enough to settle his soul even more, easing the burn into a different kind of unknown warmth. 

It was…nice, okay? It was nice.

“c’mon, let’s see what grub the boss came up with this time.” Red turned away before he could give in to another temptation, one to drag them right back to the void and to their bed. That’d come later, with every one of those little bugs set on mute.

Dinner was fine and dandy, handy, but there was always room for a lil’ dessert.

-finis


	5. Cheap Thrills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stretch can get a lot of entertainment out of a thrift store find.

* * *

Stretch loved to pick up old books at the thrift shop. There were so many gems that might get lost at a traditional bookstore, like his trusty copy of ‘How to Teach Spanish to Dogs.’

Romance novels were cheap and plentiful, and he got them by bagful for Blue, who never much seemed interested in finding his own romance but loved reading about others. Old reference books filled with outdated information that was still interesting to read about, seeing what people used to believe, until science or society proved them wrong. 

Then there were specialty finds.

Stretch wasn’t even two steps through the front door before he held up his prize, announcing happily, “look what i found!”

Edge barely looked up from his laptop, “If it has even one clown on it—"

“No clowns.” That was a prize he’d be sure to stash behind the shower curtain for maximum effect. 

For once Stretch didn’t mind Edge working a little overtime at home. Kept him off his feet, gave all those healing juices a chance to settle in. 

But a little distraction never hurt. Stretch flopped on the sofa and settled his head right into Edge’s lap, ignoring his exasperated sigh as he held out the book he’d found. 

The cover was old and stained, but the title was still readable, ‘The Congregational Cook Book’ and in small letters beneath that, ‘edited by the ladies’ aid society of the First Congregational Church of Ebott, 1915.’

He knew his baby well. As soon as Edge stopped glaring an actually looked at the book, a flicker of interest made an appearance. He set his laptop on the coffee table, ignoring Stretch’s exaggerated sputters of suffocation as his forward lean threatened to smother him with Edge’s shirt, then took the book. 

“A cookbook?”

“a really old cookbook!” Stretch enthused, “like, a century old. i thought maybe you’d like to try one it out. See how it compares to the youtube generation of cooking.”

“That does sound interesting,” Edge flipped through the book, reading aloud, “Salmon omelet, no, thank you, green tomato pickles, hot water gingerbread, hm, apple tarts. I do have apples, how does that sound?”

“baby, anything you make sounds like mana from heaven.” And at Edge’s raised brow bone, Stretch admitted, “except risotto, okay, but that’s less you than a general dislike of the genre.”

Edge nudged Stretch off his lap and stood, heading into the kitchen with book in hand. Normally, Stretch would’ve tossed him a fair thee well and let him get to it, but this time, he followed Edge through the swinging door. He was sort of curious if there were any differences in a recipe from a hundred years ago to now, and hey, science, right?

Not that he planned on helping with the cooking process, he was here strictly as an observer, and he plopped down into one of the chairs that surrounded their ‘dining room table’, “so, how much longer are we eating at the card table?”

“Not long,” Edge retrieved a large bowl from under the counter and a set of measuring cups from the cupboard before tying on an apron. “I’m working on a plan for our new kitchen layout. As soon as it’s done, I’ll have the builders get started on it.”

“uh huh, no rush, i was only curious,” Stretch propped his chin on one hand. “you do have a lot on your plate right now, babe. and there’s your whole mental health assessment you still need done.”

Really, it was sort of impressive how much Stretch could glean from slightest change in his husband’s expression. A normal person would think there was no change, but Stretch was good with languages, spent years learning Edge-ese. He knew a twist of distaste when it saw it, “Yes. There is that.”

Any other comment about it was effectively blocked by Edge’s renewed focus on the cookbook, reading the recipe aloud beneath his breath. His brow bone slowly furrowed, concentration replaced with dismay. Which…it was a cookbook, not a grimoire of early twentieth century curses. Wasn’t it?

“babe?” Stretch asked cautiously, “what is it?” 

“What kind of recipe is this!” Edge exclaimed. He picked up the book and read aloud, “Eggs, oil, fresh butter or lard, sugar, baking powder, as much flour as it needs. Must be soft as an earlobe, thicker than cake.”

“uh…” Stretch scratched at the back of his skull. “and?”

“That's it. That's the entire recipe. There’s no measurements, no directions, no temperature for baking!” He slapped the book back down on the counter-top. “There are _no apples_ listed! How can this be a recipe for apple tarts without apples? How in the name of the unknown am I supposed to gauge the softness of an earlobe when I don’t have ears?”

All great questions, except Stretch was in possession of exactly zero answers. “does seem a little speciest against those of us without earlobes.”

Edge glared at the cookbook as if by his will alone answers to his questions would come, which was why Stretch was a little surprised when Edge said abruptly, "Let me see your phone."

"yeah, sure," Stretch said, slowly handing it over. Not like he had any secrets or anything and while Edge might change his own passwords at least once a month for security reasons, he’d been using the first 6 digits of Pi since he got the phone. “why?”

“Because I left mine in the living room.” Edge tapped the screen impatiently holding it out as it began dialing out over speakerphone. 

A sleepy voice answered, "'lo? Wassup, Boney Marony. "

"Jeff,” Edge said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to engage in wordplay with my husband later. Right now, I need you to come over so I can feel your ears." 

A long moment of silence. "That’s very specific. Okay, I'll bite, give me five."

It was more like ten minutes, with Edge sitting impatiently across from Stretch, who was engaged in a furious game of Words With Friends on his newly retrieved phone. Until the light knock came on the front door followed by Jeff shambling into the kitchen. He looked like they’d woken him from a nap, his hair was smashed flat on one side and sticking up on the other. He scratched at his t-shirt covered belly and yawned out, "You know, before I met you guys, I never got calls like this."

“sounds to me like you needed a little more excitement in your life,” Stretch said cheerily.

Edge didn’t bother with a greeting. He limped determinedly over, stripping off his gloves as he went, and without warning began to vigorously fondle Jeff’s earlobes. Jeff squeaked out a mousy sound, his eyes wide as golf balls as he stared up at Edge. 

Well. Wasn’t like Andy didn’t know why he was here.

“easy, babe,” Stretch winced, “he might need a little foreplay before you go right for the lobes.”

“I’m checking his ears, not his testicles,” Edge said curtly, even as he leaned down to peer closely at the ears in question. 

That remark made Stretch and Jeff speak in unison,

“holy shit, wow, just tossing that out there, huh.”

“Okay, I’m good to help a friend out, but I am drawing the line at ball grabbing.”

Edge ignored them both. He let Jeff go and limped back to his gathered ingredients, already starting to measure them into the bowl, “Thank you, Jeff, that will be all.”

Welp, that sounded like a dismissal. Stretch climbed to his feet, jerking his head towards the door. “c’mon, andy, we can take in a flick while you’re here, if you want.”

Jeff was still a little wobbly, gingerly reaching up to touch one of his well-inspected ears as he followed Stretch out, “Do I want to know what that was all about?”

Stretch shrugged, “cooking.”

“Cooking,” Jeff repeated. He mouthed it again, soundlessly, then shook his head. “I don’t even think I want to know, plausible deniability is probably better. So, he asked for me to help, why?”

“well, how many other humans does edge know that he can call up and ask?” Stretch asked reasonably. He picked up the remote and turned on Netflix. “and don’t say your honey because we both know he’d just hang up, especially without having the proper forms filled out first.” 

“Glad to be the go-to guy for illicit cooking-related bodily inspections.” Jeff joined Stretch on the sofa, settling in. “Classic Twilight Zone, huh? Good choice.”

The first episode was mostly over by the time Edge came out with a tray with a half-dozen golden-brown treats that brimmed with appley goodness. Stretch and Jeff dug in, mumbling thank you’s around their mouthfuls and Stretch was already on his second one when he noticed Edge was scribbling notes. He chewed and swallowed his current bite and asked, “what are you doing?”

“Gauging your reactions,” Edge said, still writing, “I kept a close track of the ingredient measurements that I used so that I can make changes for the second batch. Are they too dry? Is the pastry tough?”

“Tastes fine to me,” Jeff said around his mouthful. 

“Crisp? Chewy? Is there enough spice?” Edge persisted. The two of them did their best to answer him around bites and finally, Edge made a satisfied sound and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Huh,” Jeff snagged another tart. “How many batches you think he’s gonna make?”

Stretch shrugged, “i do my experiments and he does his.”

“His taste better.”

“my science isn’t the kind you lick.”

“So far it hasn’t involved you groping my ears, either,” Jeff took a bite and groaned around it, “Worth it, man, but the balls are still off-limits.”

“sounds reasonable.” Stretch snagged the last tart and sank back to watch the pig-faced doctor demanding a needle to sedate his patient, happily waiting to review batch number two.

Hey, he got a snack and a show, all for the price of a thrift store book. Now all he needed to do was sneak that clown statue into the bathroom, but eh, he might wait a while on that. This was enough entertainment for one day.

-finis-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the recipe in question has been slightly modified from one in a reddit post and the poster had a couple of similar questions as Edge, although their solution wasn't the same. 😂 I couldn't resist writing how Edge would react to finding such a recipe. 
> 
> The ‘The Congregational Cook Book, edited by the ladies’ aid society of the First Congregational Church, 1915.’ is real enough and I own it. Some of recipes and their measurements are very interesting in comparison to what we see now!


	6. Getting Off the Soapbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stretch and Edge have very different definitions when it comes to clean and organized. The main difference is Edge's comes from the dictionary and Stretch's from mugging the language in an alley and rifling through its pockets.

* * *

“babe, i love you. i adore you with the kinetic force of a thousand hurricanes, all of them barreling from the ocean depths on the single focal point of you—"

“I’m not sure if this metaphor is supposed to be romantic or painful.”

“love you!” Stretch stressed. He took a long, slow breath, pressed his folded hands to his mouth and said around them, “but if you attempt to clean my desk, i will be forced to take drastic measures.”

The desk in question was tucked into the furthest corner of the basement. Past the lab tables which were all scrupulously tidy with their current experiments bubbling/growing/whatever away. Tidy did not apply to the desk and only scrupulous thing about it was the way that everything on it was precisely balanced so that it wouldn’t topple over to the floor. 

From this distance, the visible contents included stacks of papers, books, crumpled receipts, and a half a roll of butter rum flavor lifesavers with a winding tail of waxed paper extending from the end. Pens, pencils, highlighters, all with the ends chewed on except for the one shaped like a pickle. Two definitely empty coffee cups along with a few others whose state of contents were dubious, a couple of paper airplanes, one of which was slightly clumsy and loop de looped right into the floor when it was flown (Jeff’s) and one that had paperclips on it for proper weight distribution and flew perfectly straight on its test flight, directly into the back of Red’s skull and was only spared destruction by a hasty shortcut along with a barked order from Edge. A scattering of origami, including a half-folded giraffe that was gonna eventually find its merry way into Edge’s lunch bag, the folds concealing a blurt of messy penmanship in the form of three dirty limericks and a lovely little poem that were all written with the pickle pen. 

On the top shelf, surrounded by happy meal toys and a tiny statue of a frog sitting on a spool holding a fishing rod with a little sign at his feet that said ‘gone fly fishing’, was two framed picture, one from not long after they got to the surface of all the brothers standing together, Stretch and Edge on opposite sides of the frame with an air of almost visible animosity. The other was from their wedding, a candid shot of Stretch laughing as he wiped at the smeared cake frosting on his face and Edge with a slighter smile as he stood still holding the mangled cake he’d been feeding his brand spanking new spouse (spanking not included).

So, in a word, it was perfect and if looking at that desk made a little tic start up in Edge’s good socket, well, okay, _maybe_ anything with mold could use a quick rinse, but if Edge tried to actually add his version of structure to Stretch’s things, Stretch was gonna crawl on top of it and give him his best Gollum impression. 

“i know where everything is,” Stretch said firmly, “and if you move shit, i can’t find shit. so leave shit be.”

“That is if it hasn’t wandered off on its own.”

“be that as it may,” Stretch didn’t bother trying to argue against that distinct possibility and not only because he hadn’t seen his rubber band collection in weeks, he hoped they got a good tour gig. “i will take drastic measures if necessary.”

“Drastic measures?” Edge repeated archly. The cleaning supplies at his feet loomed threateningly. “Such as? Planning to sleep on the sofa?”

“whoa, hey, no, no one said anything about giving up sex, drastic measures don’t mean punishment for me, thanks.” Never let it be said Stretch hadn’t picked up a thing or three from Red about proper use of threats. “but i might reorganize your kitchen for you.”

Silence. 

“you know, make it easier for you to find things!” Stretch pasted on his best sparkly-helpful grin, learned from his brother after years of exposure, “I don’t think you have things sorted _scientifically_ , is all, if you only consider it based on usage and not the category of the utensils!” Stretch said earnestly, batting his non-existent eyelashes. “babe, i really think i can help you out.”

The silence took on an ominous aura of horror.

“Very well,” Edge said at last. “But coffee cups come upstairs at the end of the day. If you’re attempting to grow a new form of penicillin, you’ll need to use your own equipment and not anything from the upstairs cupboards.”

“deal.”

He made a point of blatantly staring as Edge went back upstairs, ‘cause, oooh, did he hate to see his baby leave, but he loved watching him go. Then he pulled his goggles back down and got back to work. Once he finished, he’d carry all the coffee mugs upstairs and possibly even wash them since a closeup visual might send Edge back down here with some double-barreled Lysol in hand. Then he might see if Edge could be persuaded to put the sofa to a far better use than a sulky night’s sleep. 

Cleanliness might be next to godliness, but anytime Edge could be enticed into getting a little messy was good times for all. 

-fin-


	7. What if?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my revenge for the recent art attack that speculated on what if Edge and Stretch broke up. I'm looking at YOU, Kassy, and y'all can [see the art here.](https://keelywolfe.tumblr.com/post/628422838110519296/kas-writes-so-what-if-in-keelywolfes-fic)

* * *

In Edge’s opinion, he didn’t descend to the level of pathetic until he found himself bringing the stuffed chicken to bed with him that night. Lying beneath the covers like a fool with the blasted thing in arm's reach, its black, button eyes pitiless and accusing, an unspoken demand to bring Stretch home where he belonged. 

As if he could. 

His sleep was restless and left him feeling hollow. Or perhaps that was the vacuum created by Stretch’s absence, one that led directly to his aching soul. Left with an empty bed beside him when he woke and one side of the closet with bare hangers. Downstairs, there was no reason to brew an entire pot of coffee and Edge stood there for far too long, measuring spoon in hand as he tried to recall the amount of grounds needed for only one cup. 

He went to the Embassy and did not acknowledge the looks, so many looks, ranging from silent sympathy to outright hostility. He ignored them all, going to his office and he was not hiding, he was working, efficiently getting through every folder, every report on his desk. Scanning, signing, meetings, he did it all with cool professionalism and it was only when Janice came in and hesitated at the door, her own veneer of competence slipping, that Edge chose to break his silence, if only a little.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Edge said curtly.

“I wasn’t about to ask,” Janice said in return, and the slight chill to the words left no doubt as to which side of the debate she fell on, “but it’s nearly six, are we finished for the day?”

He gave the clock a startled glance. It was a quarter to the hour, long past their normal quitting time and a tendril of the guilt he’d kept stifled all day worked its way free. Janice had two little boys waiting for her to come through the door, she wouldn’t be walking into an empty, silent house. 

“Of course,” Edge sighed, “my apologies. Go home to your family.”

“Yes, sir,” Janice said. It stung, she hadn’t called him sir in ages and perhaps something of it showed on his face because her expression softened. “You should take your own advice.”

She turned away, closing the door behind her, and Edge went back to his report. It was nearly an hour later when he finished, closing his laptop, and the hallways were empty as he walked down to his car. When he turned on the ignition, the podcast he’d been listening to lately came up and he hastily turned it off. Listening to someone chat with eager enthusiasm just now was simply too much of a reminder of a deep, beloved voice explaining minute details about anything at all.

He drove to New New Home, showed his badge at the entrance to the Human guard and even their look seemed suspiciously piteous, as though word traveled to them from car and bicycle, letting them in on the local gossip. 

Down the long main road to the rows of houses there were children running on the sidewalks, laughing and playing. Only they waved at him with enthusiasm, unaware or uncaring of his woes. He came to the driveway of the house with its empty, dark windows and equally empty rooms and…kept going. Down the road, taking the first turn to the left and heading towards Old New Home and its swath of empty housing. 

They needed to do something with these properties, the cheap, hasty shelters they’d built when Monsters came to the surface and then abandoned when the real houses were constructed. A caretaker kept them from falling into disrepair but the only thing keeping them from tearing them down was the irrational, almost hoarding-like tendencies of a people who’d spent the bulk of their lives scrounging out a living Underground.

Most of the houses were empty, their windows dark; all of them on this street, except one. 

Edge parked on the road, closed his sockets and breathed deeply before he opened the door. He did not allow himself to hesitate, only walked up to the front door and firmly knocked. And again. Again.

“Stretch,” he called, “I know you’re in there, open the door.”

“no, i’m not, go away!”

Just hearing his voice eased some of his inner turmoil, soothed over the growing ache. Edge let his forehead rest on the cold, smooth metal of the door. His thumb grazed against the ring on his third finger, spinning it around. “Please, love, I’m sorry.”

“sorry? that’s what you’re going with? i’ve heard better apologies when someone stepped on my foot on the bus!”

“I’m saving my best material for when I can look at your face,” Edge coaxed. “Please, come out.”

“oh, so now you want to look at my face? seemed like you were pretty eager for it to go away yesterday!”

Normally, his husband in a temper was a shameful temptation. Not so now, when Edge couldn’t even see him, when he was still missing the feel of him sleeping in his arms. “Rus, please—”

There was a loud clatter of something toppling over, then, “no! no, you don’t get to call me rus now, rus is our soft name! don’t you dare!”

His avenues of strategy were growing narrower by the moment. “Please, come out here.”

The door was abruptly yanked opened, and it took all the control learned over the course of a lifetime not to step back, knowing that Stretch was watching him. Perhaps glaring at him was more apt, orange-tinged eye lights watching suspiciously for the mere hint of a flinch. He was sure he kept his expression schooled to complete blandness, revealing nothing that should have sent the bright orange in his love’s eye lights to flame higher. 

“what’s wrong?” Stretch asked acidly. “still think i smell like the ungodly stench of a field of rotting cabbages?”

 _Yes._ “Love, the skunk smell will wash away, eventually,” Edge told him softly. “I’m sorry that I suggested you leave for a few days, no matter the reason.”

“you can’t just kick me out of our house,” Stretch said and his voice, so small and hurt, sent a pained throb of guilt to pulse in Edge’s soul. Then he sighed, “but fuck me if you weren’t right, i can’t even sleep the smell is so bad. i’ve been soaking in so much tomato juice i’m expecting sans to pop out of the woodwork and start humping my leg.”

“I’d rather he didn’t, I suspect my brother would struggle to forgive me if I was forced to kill him,” Edge said, relieved at the wobbly grin that came in return. When he reached out, hesitantly offering, Stretch all but fell into his arms and if his, ahem, aroma was still eye-wateringly strong, Edge didn’t care. “Come on, let’s get you in another bath. I’ll help you scrub.”

“okay.” Then he promptly didn’t move, burying his face into Edge’s shoulder, his words muffled into wool-cotton blend. “love you.”

“I love you,” Edge said back, roughly, pressing a hard, clacking kiss against the side of Stretch’s skull, the only place he could reach and let the feel of Stretch in his arms fill all the aching, empty places inside him.

He did make an absent mental note to burn this suit, unwilling to test the loyalty of his dry cleaner when faced with the results of the angry, trigger-happy skunk Stretch startled in their yard the day before. Edge suspected that he’d be taking out the trash cans from now on. 

He didn’t care. He’d take a skunk spraying of his own, ten of them, for his love. Especially if they could desecrate an alternate bathroom to clean up.

-finis-


	8. Kept At Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are certain challenges that crop up with a semi-twitter-famous husband.

* * *

Stretch very nearly tackled Edge that morning in the kitchen, brandishing the flyer like a weapon. Down at the farmer's market they were holding a ‘Fall Favorites’ cookoff that included soups, chilis, desserts, caramel apples, and cider, according to the large, excited font sprawled across the page.

His own baking was mostly finished for the day and it didn’t take long to change into warmer clothes, ignoring the way Stretch rolled his eye lights when Edge tugged a thin knit hat over his skull. He also ignored the under the breath mutters of ‘gotta be a mama bear’; there was a chill in the air and no amount of hot cider or soup was better than simply being prepared. 

The market was bustling when they arrived, people already lined up at the various stalls and displays bursting with bright orange pumpkins and dried corn stalks, hay bales stacked around as a sort of impromptu seating for those eagerly sampling the wares. The crisp air was filled with tantalizingly savory aromas, enough to tempt even Edge’s discerning palate. 

They were standing in the line for the dubiously named, ‘Mama Di’s Famous Mushroom and Wild Rice Soup’ when it started. The first Human approached, a young woman who was bundled up against the fresh autumn chill, peering up at Stretch through wide-rimmed glasses with eyes that were equally as wide. 

“Um, excuse me?” she asked, nervously, “but are you the skeleton Monster from twitter?”

“huh, hang on, lemme check,” Stretch pulled out his phone and made a show of opening up the app while the young woman waited obediently, “let me see…hey, it let me log in under ‘the big le-bone-ski’, is this the guy?”

He held up the phone by his face, sticking his bright orange tongue out to match the profile picture and the young woman laughed, blushing as she nodded.

“Yeah, I think that’s him!” she giggled, then burst out, “Oh, my god, it is so awesome to meet you! Could I maybe get a selfie with you, my friends will freak!”

“sure, hang on.” Edge was already reaching for Stretch’s bag, this one was covered in a pattern of beakers and Bunsen burners, declaring its bearer to be a ‘know-it-all’, standing back and watching as Stretch scrunched down enough to be in the frame, throwing up a pair of long, bony fingers as the two of them grinned for the camera. 

Almost immediately, the delighted young woman was replaced by another older one with two young children shyly looking up, up, at Stretch. Who quickly crouched down to chat with his younger fans, plopping down to sit cross-legged in the dusty hay so their mother could take pictures. 

Edge stayed in the line, shuffling forward as it moved on and keeping an eye on the small crowd as more people joined the group. Any curious glances at him were quickly redirected with a smooth, ‘pay no mind to the skeleton behind the curtain, he’s shy’. He couldn’t hear what else was being said, but the waves of laughter that came meant that Stretch was likely employing his timeless collection of terrible jokes and puns. Stretch was in his element, but then, he usually was out in the Human world. He teased and joked and cajoled and shone until everyone around him should be a little in love with him. More than a little, if the child pressing a somewhat messy kiss to his cheek bone was any indication. 

Perhaps that should make Edge a little jealous, but it didn't. Stretch could bask in the attention all he liked, his pale eye lights sparkling and his own grin bright and cheery. All Edge wanted was to watch his own personal sunshine warm everyone around him and to be able to bring it back home safe with him. 

By the time the crowd petered out, Edge was sitting on a convenient hay bale, calmly eating his own soup with a covered bowl sitting next to him, the know-it-all bag at his feet. Stretch wandered over, shoelaces trailing in the dust and his public persona slowly dimming away.

“sorry, babe,” Stretch said sheepishly. He sat on the bale next to Edge and picked up his bowl, pulling off the lid and inhaling deeply the steamy, rich aroma that billowed out. There was still a smear of what looked like jam on his cheek bone, leftover from a childish kiss. Edge wiped it away with one of the paper napkins and replaced the kiss with one of his own. 

“Nothing to apologize for, love,” Edge said honestly. He ate his soup, listening as Stretch chatted between bites about the different people he’d just met, wow, smart kids, they were talking about their school science project, and oh, there was going to be a cooking demonstration very soon, could they stay and watch, and—

It was more comforting than any hat or soup could ever hope to be, and Edge only sat there with the chill of autumn kept at bay, letting it warm him. 

-finis-


	9. Weighing Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For best results, use daily.

* * *

The first thing Edge noticed when he got out of his car was that there was a package sitting on their front porch. 

That in itself was somewhat unusual. Stretch did order things often, generally for his lab work; thankfully, his preference in kitschy knickknacks stayed in the range of the thrift shop discoveries. Edge suspected it wasn’t the horrible clown ceramics that Stretch loved so much as he craved the thrill of the hunt, such as it was. 

Mighty hunter or not, they still were not allowed in the house.

The other option was that it was a package from one of his twitter followers. They came rarely, as did letters, and the size of the box might be cause for concern. The yukata that Stretch once received was a lovely gift and he still wore it on occasion. The pickle-sized jar that contained a rubber alien doll floating in disgusting green liquid was much less appreciated. 

There was also the fact that it was still on the porch and not torn open by an eager Stretch that was somewhat worrisome and Edge bypassed the package for the door, calling out the moment he was inside, “Love?” Then, louder, “Stretch?”

The silence was broken by their bedroom door opening and Stretch shuffling out, yawning sleepily. His tank top was dragged up by a haphazard scratch at his rib cage, his pajama pants hanging precariously low on his pelvis, both a visual treat in terms of silky-smooth bone even if it was somewhat worrisome that he might trip over the hems as he shambled his way downstairs. Straight to Edge where he didn’t hug so much as simply lean full body against him, his skull dropping to rest heavily on Edge’s shoulder.

“hey, baby love.” That husky, whiskey-sweet voice never failed to send a shiver trilling up Edge’s spine, particularly whispered so closely that he could feel warm, damp breath against his collarbone. Tempting as it was to simply herd him back to the sofa to see what other sounds he could coax loose, Edge resisted, for now, and only nuzzled a gentle kiss against the smooth curve of his husband’s skull. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he murmured, “but I was a little concerned, there is a package on the porch and—”

Stretch’s head immediately snapped up, any vestiges of warm sleepiness evaporating. Edge could only mourn the loss as he pulled away and exclaimed, “it’s here!”

He watched, bemused, as Stretch dashed to the porch and started hauling the package inside. He picked at the tape, grumbling beneath his breath until Edge silently offered him his pocketknife. He nearly regretted it, wincing as Stretch laid siege on the packing tape. “Easy, there, it’s sharp, you’re trying to open it, not sever a finger.”

“i got it,” Stretch grunted, managing to cut away the tape without major injury. Beneath a ridiculous amount of filler paper was a large, oddly cushiony gray lump and Edge watched as his husband hauled it out of the box with glee.

“Yes, you do, but what did you get?” Edge asked, doubtfully. It looked like a very plain, lumpy blanket, not at all to his husband’s normally somewhat… exuberant …tastes. 

“i got a weighted blanket,” Stretch said gleefully, “it's supposed to help with anxiety and stuff. lots of humans like ‘em, figured it can’t hurt to try it, right?”

The plastic wrapping was barely torn away as Stretch shook out the blanket and dragged it to the sofa, flopping down with a loud flump. He lay motionless beneath the blanket for a long moment, then shifted to his side, then again, then rolled once more to lay on his back. 

Edge wasn’t a doctor, but that didn’t seem especially soothing. He sat on the sofa arm, looking down at the lumpy blanket with its new addition of extra skeletal lumps. “How does it feel?”

“dunno.” The words were muffled beneath the heavy padding. “you know me babe, when it's time to sleep, i don’t move, and when i need to get up, i _need_ to get up. this thing…i don’t feel very pinned down. maybe it's not heavy enough.”

More likely, if it was going to work it needed longer than an impatient five-minute test run. Rather than pointing out the obvious, Edge slipped off his shoes and climbed on top of the entire cushiony mess, ignoring Stretch’s grunts and the occasional poke of an elbow or knee as he settled in.

“How's that?” Edge asked, innocently. He reached up and pulled the blanket down enough to meet a pair of pale eye lights in narrowed sockets, “does the extra weight help?”

“yeah, you shit, it’s swell,” Stretch wheezed. "hate to make a _blanket_ statement, but i'm not sure it was worth the _weight._ " Bony arms and legs wriggled loose of the blanket to wrap around Edge, caging him in and shifting them both around until his husband sighed out contentedly, “much better. could've saved my money and gone for this in the first place.”

“I’m happy to weigh you down anytime you need it,” Edge told him solemnly. 

“not likely, babe,” Stretch scoffed, “all you ever manage to do is lift me up.”

That deserved a kiss at the very least, Stretch groaning out another laughing wheeze as Edge shifted his weight to take it. Physically, he might be heavy, but the way his husband kissed him back left his soul feather light. 

-finis-


	10. Not a Quiet Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet did not reign free in their household.

* * *

Edge was nearly finished with his last report, ready to set his work aside and take some time to actually appreciate being at home when he realized that the living room was too quiet. 

Stretch was many things; tall, beautiful, exasperating, but quiet was very far down on his list, not even in his top twenty. Even when he wasn’t talking, he was always making some kind of noise. Fidgeting with his lighter or ink pens, his bony fingers were always tapping on tables and walls or nimbly rolling coins across his knuckles, or once, fidgeting with string of tiny bells that was likely a cat toy in a previous life, although that one Edge eventually hid to spare his sanity. Even when he napped on the sofa, there was always something on tv or a podcast playing on his phone. 

Quiet did not reign free in their household. This silence was a warning, and it was past time to find out for what. 

He wouldn’t be in the lab, once Stretch came upstairs, he rarely went back down, preferring to scribble any sudden flashes of brilliance on whatever was available, napkins, old flyers, even down the front of his own sweatshirt in a pinch and those equations never did quite wash out, leaving him looking like a walking advertisement for advanced calculus.

A quick glance in the kitchen and out back showed them empty of skeletons. So was their bedroom and the guest room, which left the bathroom. The door was shut, and a light knock brought no response. It wasn’t locked, the knob turning easily beneath his hand and this time his husband was found. In their bathtub, not particularly unusual, and sound asleep, which was. 

Edge stood in the doorway, torn between the warmth of adoration and exasperation. Not that there was any danger of him drowning; the tub was larger than standard but accommodating a skeleton who topped the measure at nearly seven feet tall was a challenge even for modern plumbing. His legs were bent, bony knees poking out of the sudsy water with one arm draped over the side and his skull dropped back against the ceramic lip as he lightly snored.

It’d been a little while since he’d caught Stretch asleep in an unusual location. These days the sofa was his preferred location, whether alone or with Edge curled up next him, watching television and reading. He'd probably gotten bored of waiting for Edge to finish his work, though he must have been tired to drift off in the bath.

Edge sat on the side of the tub, trailing a hand in the water and grimacing at the tepid temperature. That was the problem with a bath, the water cooled far too quickly. The hot tub in the basement still got regular use but usually when they were together, and Stretch couldn’t have bubbles in it. Mostly because he was forbidden from any other soap-related experiments within 20 meters of the house. The froth of bubbles from his bath was dwindling, exposing even more bone, and that was enough reason to get him out. The last thing Stretch needed was to get a chill. 

“Love?” Edge said softly, then a little louder, “Stretch?”

He startled awake, blinking his sockets hazily. Muddled confusion turned to hazy happiness when he saw Edge and his, “hey, babe,” was slurry and soft as Stretch reached for him, all eager, grabby hands.

“Wait—” Edge tried to scramble back but he was too late. Stretch clung to him thoughtlessly with surprising strength, pulling him off balance and toppling him into the tub with a mighty splash. 

Water sloshed over the side, luckily soaking into the large bathmat as Edge tried to struggle his way upright, flailing for an impossible grip on slippery porcelain and legs dangling over the side of tub. He gave up, slumping back into the water to give Stretch a sour look. It looked like his dry cleaning was getting moved up this week. At least his phone was still downstairs. 

Water droplets splattered Stretch’s face from the flailing, bubbles dripping from his chin as he smiled sheepishly, “oops? i'm sorry, babe.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” Edge said dryly, ironically so. “but give me a moment and I think I can get you there.”

“what—no, don’t!” He was already shrieking laughter at the first touch on his ribs, more water splashing out onto the soaked rug as Edge clambered the rest of the way into the tub, his trousers heavy and soaked as he determinedly tickled his trapped husband, the ominous silence thoroughly broken. The small room echoed with giggles, laughter eventually muffled into kisses, soft and sweet and not quiet at all. 

-finis-


	11. Breathing Exercises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't what Stretch expected when he woke up in the middle of the night

* * *

It was still the middle of the night when Stretch woke up. Not entirely unusual, he got thirsty sometimes at night and always kept a glass next to the bed to give his soul a good watering before he took a return trip to the land of Nod. Tonight was no exception; his tongue was lying parched on the floor of his mouth and making silent demands for a good dousing and Stretch would’ve been happy to provide…if he could’ve moved. 

He woke up a little more, wriggling suspiciously. He couldn’t see, but he could sure feel and what it felt like was that Edge had plonked his heavy, cannonball skull right in between his shoulder blades. Not exactly uncomfortable, but it was kinda weird, plus it put Edge's neck at an angle that was making Stretch’s vertebrae ache in sympathy. Without an intervention, he was probably gonna spend a lot of time tomorrow looking to the left. 

He wondered what brought this on. Edge tended to sleep on his back, mortuary-style. When he settled into bed, he chose a position and stuck with it all damn night like he was sleeping inside a coffin, only an arms-crossed-over-his-chest away from a modern Dracula. Whereas Stretch knew that he himself tended to sleep like his id and his ego were playing a rousing game of mental twister all night long and bringing his body along for the ride. Edge never complained about it; point of fact, he once fondly told Stretch that it was no wonder he needed naps during the day considering how much exercise he got at night. 

Maybe this was Edge’s subconscious way of pinning him down in an effort to get some better sleep? Could be, but that theory was shaky. It was only Edge’s skull and from the feel of it, maybe half an arm. He had three and a half other limbs to use for anchoring purposes if he was trying to weigh down the S.S Papyrus.

Hmmm. Another suspicious thought came to him, one other reason Edge might be laying on top of him like this and there was one quick and easy way to test his hypothesis. 

Stretch took a deep breath and held it.

He’d barely counted to thirty when Edge stirred next to him, jerking upright and already far too awake as he struggled to flip Stretch over, hands searching him as Edge called his name with a hint of panic, "Stretch? Love?"

Welp, let's not leave him in suspense, Stretch’s science brain was already hastily backing off and his guilt was switching into the on position and climbing. Stretch caught his frantic hands and held them gently, gloved fingers wrapping painfully tight around his own. "hey, babe," Stretch said deliberately sleepy, going for that ‘you just woke me up’ effect, "you okay?"

Edge sank back down, blowing out a sharp breath. He rubbed a hand over his face, the wild shine of his eye lights dimming down to a softer normal, "Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I must have had a bad dream."

Okay, yeah, that kicked the guilt up to eleven. No need for Edge to take on any blame here, this was his fault, time to start working with the test results. 

Not that he was gonna explain, thanks, ‘I stopped breathing to see what you’d do’ wasn’t a midnight kind of conversation. 

“you don’t have to apologize, babe, c’mere.” Stretch pulled Edge in against his side, silky pajamas gliding against his bare bones as he dragged the comforter back over them. He let Edge settle his head on his ribcage, perfectly positioned for a little more of his baby’s touchingly creepy breathing inspection. 

Whatever, it was fine, he’d get that drink later. For now, Stretch only snuggled in close, held Edge tighter, and breathed.

-finis-


	12. Fairy Tail Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge and Red have always done better at silent communication

* * *

Edge would never tell his brother how much it pleased him that he and Sans were, if not completely committed then at least meandering in the direction of a more permanent relationship. It was surely for the best to say nothing about it aloud, if only because he wouldn’t put it past Red to throw Sans out of the house in sheer bloody defiance of fate and wrecking what was hopefully becoming a somewhat distorted version of happily ever after. 

He would never say it aloud, but he had no doubt that Red interpreted his silence about the situation correctly. He and his brother had always communicated better without words, and Edge accepted Red’s sour glares stoically, serenely going about his business as if he’d never noticed the two of them snuggled together on the sofa when he came in, his brother’s arms holding Sans close even though the other skeleton was drooling a large, wet patch on the front of Red’s shirt. 

Today was the one day chosen monthly for him to wade through the growing piles of filth in his brother’s home in an attempt to avoid a highly preventable death from food poisoning or even more likely, drowning in a sea of wrappers and dirty dishes. 

To his wary surprised, the house was slightly less foul than normal. The kitchen in particular was cleaner than on past visits, the litter box in the corner freshly scooped and smelling only of baking soda. Against the other wall was a small fountain offering a clean stream of water for any beast willing to lean down for it and a dish of dry cat food, the name ‘Ozzy’ engraved on the front.

He couldn’t say whether it was the cat or Sans that was having a positive effect on his brother’s housekeeping, but he had his suspicions that it was the four-legged roommate who possessed the higher standards. 

Edge was an hour into his deep cleaning when Red finally shuffled in the kitchen, heading towards the newly descaled coffee pot to flip it on. Sans was at his heels and both of them settled at the card table that served as their dining set, shifting between several states of awake vs sleeping.

“Good morning,” Edge said, though it was closer to noon. He was up to his elbows in suds, scrubbing at pots that had been left on the counter. Plates and glasses usually ended up in the dishwasher eventually, but pots and pans tended to be used once then left at the side of the sink until he returned to destroy whatever microscopic civilizations were releasing their leftover mac and cheese spores. 

The sound his brother made could have been in the neighborhood of a reply, perhaps even a fond greeting, and Edge decided to take it as such. 

The coffee pot was nearly done filling with fragrant brew when the cat wandered into the kitchen carrying a dirty sock in its mouth. Edge resisted the urge to snatch it away. If Ozzy hadn’t perished already from whatever germ warfare was currently battling its way across the cotton, then chances were he’d built up an immunity. 

“aw, good catch, oz.” Red leaned down to take his offering of prey, scratching the cat’s ears with marked gentleness. He purred contentedly at a volume just slightly below a chainsaw. He shoved his head demandingly against his hand and Red obediently continued, likely the first time he’d ever been obedient about anything.

“If the sock is yours, I’ve no doubt that he deserves the praise for hunting it down,” Edge said dryly. 

“yeah, thanks for protecting us from any _silk stalkings_ ,” Sans yawned. His slippers scuffed across the tile floor as he headed over to the coffee pot, pouring out two cups. He carried them back to the table, setting the second one ever so slightly out of Red’s reach. “never did trust a sock that doesn’t go over the ankle.”

“don’t listen to ‘em, oz,” Red sniffed. “ya done good.”

“Strange,” Edge mused, rinsing out the pot and setting it in the dish drainer. “You were never filled with praise when I brought unusual things home.” In fact, depending on where, or who, Edge stole his childhood prizes from, Red had often been downright furious over him risking himself for books or treats. Thievery was excusable, getting caught, never. 

Red scratched Ozzy gently under his furry chin. "eh, you always go easier on the second kid."

Edge paused, the pan in his hands dripping suds back into the sink. He had some rather mixed feelings about that statement. A glance at Sans only showed him risking a sprain by vigorously rolling his eye lights and Edge decided to let it go. If anyone had the right to complain about their furry roommate, it would be Sans, and Edge would leave it to him to worry about the ongoing battle over Red’s affections between himself and the cat. 

For one, at least their collars didn’t match. 

He went back to scrubbing the dishes, already mentally making plans to invite Sans and Red over for dinner tonight in his own much cleaner, if still needing repairs, kitchen. Likely, they’d accept, or Sans would and drag a grousing Red along with him. His brother would be a shit more likely than not, antagonizing him and Stretch both with attitude and table manners, and Sans would be much the same, a double serving of extra puns and perdition at his dining room table. 

And if that was what it took to give his brother a sliver of happiness, a glimpse at his happily ever after? Edge was more than willing to accept his share.

-fin


	13. Alternative Uses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Edge, Stretch wasn’t exactly used to sleeping in a bed with anyone but his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mature sexiness ahead, nothing graphic.

* * *

Before Edge, Stretch wasn’t exactly used to sleeping in a bed with anyone but his brother. 

Back in the good old bad days of Underswap, when Blue was Sans and he was Paps instead of Stretch. Different names in another place before everything went sour, when he was someone else who used to read to his little brother and sometimes, they’d fall asleep together with the fuzzy puppy book smashed between them, drooling on each other’s pajamas as they slept in the dubious safety of their little house. 

Sleeping with Edge was a lot different, for a lot of reasons. For one, he could say, unequivocally and with great relief, that not once when he’d snoozed with his bro had he ever woken up with a boner pushing up against his tailbone. 

A quick peek revealed that it was still the middle of the night, their bedroom dark and still. Could be that Edge only crawled into bed a little bit ago and usually he tried hard (heh) not to wake Stretch up when he pulled him into his arms. This time it seemed like he’d brought a little extra tackle with his gear. Wasn’t exactly comfortable, either, even if it was a little more cushy than an actual bone. Mostly when he and Edge cuddled, they were like two bony puzzle pieces fitted together. 

This was throwing a wrench into their system, a long, hard wrench, and when Stretch squirmed, the soft hiss confirmed what he already suspected; his honey was wide awake above the waist, too. 

"happy to see me?" Stretch mumbled, squirming again for maximum effect.

"Always,” Edge said. My, my, that was a little breathless wasn’t it, said between gritted teeth, hm, yes, seemed like someone might have more than one bone to pick with him. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." 

Stretch caught hold of the arms that tried to withdraw from around him, circling Edge’s wrists with his slim fingers like little bony cuffs. In his loose grip, those strong bones twisted lightly, testing; Edge could have gotten free easily, sure, but it was all in the fact that he didn’t, oh, hell yes, his baby wasn’t going anywhere. 

"nah, s’warm," Stretch sighed. Another squirm, this one with a deliberate little writhing wriggle added in at the end. 

Edge grunted and his breath against the side of Stretch’s skull was almost as hot as he was. "Be that as it may, if you want to keep it as a stand-in for a hot water bottle, you'll need to keep still."

“heh. baby, i ain’t about swap a bone for a burrow. never metatarsal i didn’t like, no bones about it.” Stretch wriggled again, deliberately sliding his tailbone up and down, sparing the rod wasn’t gonna spoil this child, and when Edge let out a sound between a groan and a filthy curse, he said, sotto voce, "i'm sorry, darling, am i bothering you?"

"With supreme talent, yes.”

From the low growl in his baby’s voice, he had about a minute of teasing left before Edge was gonna try to make him regret it in the best possible way. Stretch only squirmed harder, arching his pelvis back against Edge’s to pretty-please speed up the process.

Sleeping in the same bed with someone was nice and all, but being awake together in one was where the real fun started. 

-fin


End file.
